T... 


LINCOLN  Ri  J>M 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL   . 

the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


ABE  LINCOLN 
AND  NANCY  HANKS 

BEING  ONE  OF 

ELBERT  HUBBARD'S 

FAMOUS  LITTLE  JOURNEYS 

TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED 

FOR  FULL  MEASURE 

A  TRIBUTE 

TO  THE 
MOTHER  OF  LINCOLN 


THE  ROYCROFTERS 

EAST  AURORA,   ERIE  COUNTY,  NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 
BY  THE  ROYCROFTERS 


C 


tc 


With  malice  toward  none;  with  charity 
for  all;  with  firmness  in  the  right,  as 
God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us 
strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in; 
to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds;  to  care 
for  him  who  has  borne  the  battle,  and  for 
his  widow  and  orphan — to  do  all  which 
may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  last- 
ing peace  among  ourselves,  and  with  all 


nations/ 


ABE   LINCOLN 
AND   NANCY  HANKS 


NANCY     HANKS 

MOTHER  OF  LINCOLN 


IN  Spencer  County,  forty  miles  Northeast 
of  Evansville,  and  one  hundred  fifty  miles 
from  Louisville  is  Lincoln  City,  Indiana. 
There  was  no  town  there  in  the  days  of 
Abraham  Lincoln.  The  '  city  '  sprang  into 
existence  with  the  coming  of  the  railroad, 
only  a  few  years  ago.  The  word  '  city  '  was 
anticipatory. 

The  place  is  a  hamlet  of  barely  a  dozen  houses. 
There  is  a  general  store,  a  blacksmith-shop, 
the  railroad-station,  and  a  very  good  school 
to  which  the  youth  come  from  miles  around. 
If  The  occasion  of  my  visit  was  the  annual 
meeting  of  the  Indiana  Editors'  Association. 
If  A  special  train  had  been  provided  us  by 
the  courtesy  of  the  Southern  Railway.  There 

Page  9 


were  about  two  hundred  people  in  the  party. 
1f  At  Nancy  Hanks  Park  we  were  met  by 
several  hundred  farmers  and  their  families, 
some  of  whom  had  come  for  twenty-five 
miles  and  more  to  attend  the  exercises. 
As  I  sat  on  the  platform  and  looked  into  the 
tanned,  earnest  faces  of  these  people,  I  realized 
the  truth  of  that  remark  of  Thomas  Jefferson, 
The  chosen  people  of  God  are  those  who 
till  the  soil." 

These  are  the  people  who  have  ever  fought 
freedom's  fight.  And  the  children  of  such  as 
these  are  often  the  men  who  go  up  to  the  cities 
and  take  them  captive. 

In  the  cities  the  poor  imitate  the  follies  and 
foibles  of  the  rich  to  the  extent  of  their  ability. 
If  But  here,  far  away  from  the  big  towns  and 
cities,  we  get  a  type  of  men  and  women  such 
as  Lincoln  knew.  They  had  come  with  the 
children,  brought  their  lunch  in  baskets,  and 
were  making  a  day  of  it. 

Page  10 


We  formed  in  line  by  twos  and  ascended  the 
little  hill  where  the  mother  of  Lincoln  sleeps. 
On  the  simple  little  granite  column  are  the 
words : 

NANCY  HANKS  LINCOLN 

MOTHER    OF   ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

DIED  OCTOBER  5,  1818 
AGED  35  YEARS 

Instinctively  we  uncovered. 
Not   a  word  was  spoken. 
An  old  woman,   bowed,  bronzed,  with  fur- 
rowed  face,    approached.    She   wore    a   blue 
sunbonnet,    a   calico   dress,    a   check   apron. 
The  apron  was  full  of  flowers. 
The   old   woman   pushed   through   the  little 
group  and  emptied  her  wild  flowers  on  the 
grave. 

No    words    of   studied    oratory    could    have 
been  as  eloquent. 
A  woman  was  paying  tribute  to  the  woman 

Page  II 


who  gave  to  the  world  the  mightiest  man 

America  has  produced! 

And  this  old  woman  might  have  been  kin 

to  the  woman  to  whose  resting-place  we  had 

journeyed. 

A  misty  something  came  over  my  eyesight, 

and  through  my  mind  ran  a  vision  of  Nancy 

Hanks. 

"  Died  aged  35,"   runs  the  inscription. 

The  family  had  come  from  Kentucky,  only 

a   half-day's  journey   distant    as   we    count 

miles  today  by  steam  and  trolley. 

But  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventeen  it  took 

the  little  cavalcade  a  month  to  come  from 

LaRue  County,  Kentucky,  to  Spencer  County, 

Indiana,  sixteen  miles  as  the  birds  fly,  North 

of  the  Ohio  River. 

Here,  land  was  to  be  had  for  the  settling. 

For  ten  miles  North  from  the  Ohio  the  soil 

is  black  and  fertile. 

Then  you  reach  the  hills,  or  what  the  early 

Page  12 


settlers  called    !  the  barrens.'3  The  soil  here 
is  yellow,  the  land  rolling. 
It  is  picturesque  beyond  compare,  beautiful 
as  a  poet's  dream,  but  tickle  it  as  you  will 
with  a  hoe  it  will  not  laugh  a  harvest. 
At  the  best  it  will  only  grimly  grin. 
It  is  a  country  of  timber  and  toil. 
Valuable    hardwoods    abound — oak,    walnut, 
ash,   hickory. 

Springs  flowing  from  the  hills  are  plentiful, 
wild  flowers  grow  in  profusion,  the  trees  are 
vocal  with  song  and  birds,  but  the  ground  is 
stony  and  stubborn. 

HERE  the  family  rested  by  the  side  of 
the  cold,  sparkling  stream. 
Across  the  valley  to  the  West  the  hills  arose, 
grand,  somber,  majestic. 
Down  below  a  stream  went  dancing  its  way 
to  the  sea. 
And  near  by  were  rushes  and  little  patches 

Page  13 


of  grass,  where  the  tired  horses  nibbled  in 
gratitude. 

And  so  they  rested.  There  were  Thomas 
Lincoln;  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln,  his  wife; 
Sarah  Lincoln,  aged  ten;  and  little  Abe 
Lincoln,  aged  eight. 

The  family  had  four  horses,  old  and  lame. 
In  the  wagon  were  a  few  household  goods, 
two  sacks  of  cornmeal,  a  side  of  bacon. 
Instead  of  pushing  on  Westward  the  family 
decided  to  remain.  They  built  a  shack  from 
logs,  closed  on  three  sides,  open  to  the  South. 
If  The  reason  the  South  side  was  left  open  was 
because  there  was  no  chimney,  and  the  fire  they 
built  was  half  in  the  home  and  half  outside. 
Here  the  family  lived  that  first  bleak,  dreary 
Winter.  To  Abe  and  Sarah  it  was  only  fun. 
But  to  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln,  who  was  deli- 
cate, illy  clothed,  underfed,  and  who  had 
known  better  things  in  her  Kentucky  home, 
it  was  hardship. 

Page  14 


She  was  a  woman  of  aspiration  and  purpose, 
a  woman  with  romance  and  dreams  in  her 
heart.  Now  all  had  turned  to  ashes  of  roses. 
Children,  those  little  bold  explorers  on  life's 
stormy  sea,  accept  everything  just  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

Abe  wrote,  long  years  afterward:  "  My  mother 
worked  steadily  and  without  complaining.  She 
cooked,  made  clothing,  planted  a  little  garden. 
She  coughed  at  times,  and  often  would  have  to 
lie  down  for  a  little  while."  We  did  not  know 
she  was  ill.  She  was  worn,  yellow  and  sad.  One 
day  when  she  was  lying  down  she  motioned 
me  to  come  near.  And  when  I  stood  by  the 
bed  she  reached  out  one  hand  as  if  to  embrace 
me,  and  pointing  to  my  sister  Sarah  said  in 
a  whisper,  [  Be  good  to  her,  Abe ! ' 
The  tired  woman  closed  her  eyes,  and  it  was 
several  hours  before  the  children  knew  she 
was  dead. 
The  next  day  Thomas  Lincoln  made  a  coffin 

Page  15 


of  split  boards.  The  body  of  the  dead  woman 
was  placed  in  the  rude  coffin.  And  then  four 
men  carried  the  coffin  up  to  the  top  of  a  little 
hill  near  by  and  it  was  lowered  into  a  grave. 
If  A  mound  of  rocks  was  piled  on  top,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  the  times,  to  protect 
the  grave  from  wild  animals. 
Little  Abe  and  Sarah  went  down  the  hill, 
dazed  and  undone,  clinging  to  each  other 
in  their  grief. 

But  there  was  work  to  do,  and  Sarah  was 
the  "  little  other  mother." 

FOR  a  year  she  cooked,  scrubbed,  patched 
the  clothing,  and  looked  after  the  house- 
hold. If  Then  one  day  Thomas  Lincoln  went 
away,  and  left  the  two  children  alone. 
He  was  gone  for  a  week,  but  when  he  came 
back  he  brought  the  children  a  stepmother — 
Sally  Bush  Johnston. 
This    widow    who    was    now    Mrs.    Thomas 

Page  16 


Lincoln  had  three  children  of  her  own,  but 
she  possessed  enough  love  for  two  more. 
Her  heart  went  out  to  little  Abe,   and  his 
lonely   heart   responded. 
She    brought    provisions,    dishes,    cloth    for 
clothing,    needles    to    sew    with,    scissors    to 
cut.  She  was  a  good  cook.  And  best  of  all 
she  had  three  books. 

Up  to  this  time  Abe  had  never  worn  shoes 
or  cap.  She  made  him  moccasins,  and  also 
a  coonskin  cap,  with  a  dangling  tail. 
She   taught  Abe   and   Sarah   to   read,    their 
own  mother  having  taught  them  the  alphabet. 
She    told    them    stories — stories    of    George 
Washington  and  Thomas  Jefferson.  She  told 
them  of  the  great  outside  world  of  towns  and 
cities  where  many  people  lived. 
She   told   them   of  the   Capitol  at  Washing- 
ton, and  of  the  Government  of  the  United 
States. 
And    they   learned   to   repeat  the  names  of 

Page  I? 


these  States,  and  write  the  names  out  with 
a  burnt  stick  on  a  slab. 
And  Little  Abe  Lincoln  and  his  sister  Sarah 
were  very  happy. 

Their  hearts  were  full  of  love  and  gratitude 
for  their  New  Mother,  and  they  sometimes 
wondered  if  anywhere  in  the  wide  world 
there  were  little  boys  and  girls  who  had  as 
much  as  they. 

'  All  I  am,  and  all  I  hope  to  be,  I  owe  to 
my  darling  mother!  "  wrote  Abraham  Lincoln, 
years  later. 

And  it  is  good  to  know  that  Sarah  Bush 
Lincoln  lived  to  see  the  boy  evolve  into  the 
greatest  man  in  America.  She  survived  him 
four  years. 

Here  Abe  Lincoln  lived  until  he  was  twenty- 
one,  until  he  had  attained  his  height  of  six 
feet  four. 

He  had  read  every  book  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  had  even  tramped  through  the  forest 

Page  18 


twenty  miles,  to  come  back  with  a  borrowed 
volume,  which  he  had  read  to  his  mother  by 
the  light  of  a  pine-knot. 
He  had  clerked  in  the  store  down  at      The 
Forks/'   at  Gentryville. 

He  had  whipped  the  local  bully — and  asked 
his  pardon  for  doing  so. 
He  had  spelled  down  the  school  and  taken 
parts  in  debates. 

He  could  split  more  rails  than  any  other  man 
in  the  neighborhood. 

He  had  read  the  Bible,  the  Revised  Statutes 
of  Indiana,  and  could  repeat  Poor  Richard's 
Almanac  backward. 

He  was  a  natural  leader — the  strongest,  sanest, 
kindest  and  truest  young  man  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

WHEN  Abe  was  twenty-one,  the  family 
decided  to  move  West.  There  were  four 
ox-carts  in  all. 

Page  19 


One  of  these  carts  was  driven  by  Abraham 
Lincoln. 

But  before  they  started,  Abe  cut  the  initials 
N.  H.  L.  on  a  slab  and  placed  it  securely  at 
the  head  of  the  grave  of  his  mother — the 
mother  who  had  given  him  birth. 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy-six  James 
Studebaker  of  South  Bend  bought  a  marble 
headstone  and  placed  it  on  the  grave.  Mr. 
Studebaker  also  built  a  picket-fence  around 
the  grave,  and  paid  the  owner  of  the  property 
a  yearly  sum  for  seeing  that  the  grave  was 
protected,  'and  that  visitors  were  allowed  free 
access  to  the  spot. 

In  Nineteen  Hundred  Five  certain  citizens 
of  Indiana  bought  the  hilltop,  a  beautiful 
grove  of  thirty  acres,  and  this  property  is 
now  the  possession  of  the  State,  forever. 
A  guardian  lives  here  who  keeps  the  prop- 
erty in  good  condition. 
A  chapel,  roofed,  but  open  on  all  sides, 

Page  20 


has  been  built,  the  trees  are  trimmed,  the 
underbrush  removed.  Winding  walks  and  well- 
kept  roadways  are  to  be  seen.  The  park  is 
open  to  the  public.  Visitors  come,  some  of 
them  great  and  learned. 
And  now  and  again  comes  some  old  woman, 
tired,  worn,  knowing  somewhat  of  the  history 
of  Nancy  Hanks,  and  all  she  endured  and 
suffered,  and  places  on  the  mound  a  bouquet 
gathered  down  in  the  meadows. 
And  here  alone  on  the  hilltop  sleeps  the  woman 
who  went  down  into  the  shadow  and  gave 
him  birth. 

Biting  poverty  was  her  portion;  deprivation 
and  loneliness  were  her  lot.  But  on  her  tomb 
are  four  words  that  express  the  highest  praise 
that  tongue  can  utter,  or  pen  indite: 

MOTHER 

OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Page  21 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


'TpHE  world  will  little  note  nor  long  re- 
A  member,  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never 
forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living, 
rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far 
so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here 
dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before 
us — that  from  these  honored  dead  we  take  in- 
creased devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they 
gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion;  that 
we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain;  that  this  nation,  under 
God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom;  and 
that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people, 
for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

— Lincoln's  Gettysburg  Speech 

Page  23 


NO,  dearie,  I  do  not  think  my  childhood 
differed  much  from  that  of  other  good 
healthy  country  youngsters.  I  Ve  heard  folks 
say  that  childhood  has  its  sorrows  and  .all 
that,  but  the  sorrows  of  country  children 
do  not  last  long.  The  young  rustic  goes  out 
and  tells  his  troubles  to  the  birds  and  flowers, 
and  the  flowers  nod  in  recognition,  and  the 
robin  that  sings  from  the  top  of  a  tall  poplar- 
tree  when  the  sun  goes  down  says  plainly 
it  has  sorrows  of  its  own — and  understands. 
1f  I  feel  a  pity  for  all  those  folks  who  were 
born  in  a  big  city,  and  thus  got  cheated  out 
of  their  childhood.  Zealous  ash-box  inspectors 
in  gilt  braid,  prying  policemen  with  clubs, 
and  signs  reading,  "  Keep  Off  the  Grass," 
are  woful  things  to  greet  the  gaze  of  little 
souls  fresh  from  God. 

Last  Summer  six  [  Fresh  Airs  '  were  sent 
out  to  my  farm,  from  the  Eighth  Ward. 
Half  an  hour  after  their  arrival,  one  of  them, 

Page  24 


a  little  girl  five  years  old,  who  had  consti- 
tuted herself  mother  of  the  party,  came  rush- 
ing into  the  house  exclaiming,  f  Say,  Mister, 
Jimmy  Driscoll  he's  walkin'  on  de  grass!' 
If  I  well  remember  the  first  Keep-Off-the- 
Grass  sign  I  ever  saw.  It  was  in  a  printed 
book;  it  was  n't  exactly  a  sign,  only  a  picture 
of  a  sign,  and  the  single  excuse  I  could  think 
of  for  such  a  notice  was  that  the  field  was 
full  of  bumblebee  nests,  and  the  owner,  being 
a  good  man  and  kind,  did  not  want  barefoot 
boys  to  add  bee-stings  to  stone-bruises.  And 
I  never  now  see  one  of  those  signs  but  that 
I  glance  at  my  feet  to  make  sure  that  I  have 
shoes  on. 

Given  the  liberty  of  the  country,  the  child 
is  very  near  to  Nature's  heart;  he  is  brother 
to  the  tree  and  calls  all  the  dumb,  growing 
things  by  name.  He  is  sublimely  superstitious. 
His  imagination,  as  yet  untouched  by  dis- 
illusion, makes  good  all  that  earth  lacks, 

Page  25 


and  habited  in  a  healthy  body  the  soul  sings 
and  soars. 

In  childhood,  magic  and  mystery  lie  close 
around  us.  The  world  in  which  we  live  is  a 
panorama  of  constantly  unfolding  delights, 
our  faith  in  the  Unknown  is  limitless,  and 
the  words  of  Job,  uttered  in  mankind's  morn- 
ing, fit  our  wondering  mood:  c  He  stretcheth 
out  the  North  over  the  empty  place,  and 
hangeth  the  earth  upon  nothing." 
I  am  old,  dearie,  very  old.  In  my  childhood 
much  of  the  State  of  Illinois  was  a  prairie, 
where  wild  grass  waved  and  bowed  before 
the  breeze,  like  the  tide  of  a  Summer  sea. 
I  remember  when  relatives  rode  miles 
and  miles  in  springless  farm-wagons  to  visit 
cousins,  taking  the  whole  family  and  staying 
two  nights  and  a  day;  when  books  were  things 
to  be  read;  when  the  beaver  and  the  buffalo 
were  not  extinct;  when  wild  pigeons  came 
in  clouds  that  shadowed  the  sun;  when 

Page  26 


steamboats  ran  on  the  Sangamon;when  Bishop 
Simpson  preached;  when  Hell  was  a  place, 
not  a  theory,  and  Heaven  a  locality  whose 
fortunate  inhabitants  had  no  work  to  do; 
when  Chicago  newspapers  were  ten  cents 
each;  when  cotton  cloth  was  fifty  cents  a 
yard,  and  my  shirt  was  made  from  a  flour- 
sack,  with  the  legend,  c  Extra  XXX,"  across 
my  proud  bosom,  and  just  below  the  words 
in  flaming  red,  Warranted  Fifty  Pounds!' 
If  The  mornings  usually  opened  with  smothered 
protests  against  getting  up,  for  country  folks 
then  were  extremists  in  the  matter  of  "early  to 
bed,  early  to  rise,  makes  a  man  heal  thy,  weal  thy 
and  wise.'3  We  had  n't  much  wealth,  nor  were 
we  very  wise,  but  we  had  health  to  burn.  But 
aside  from  the  unpleasantness  of  early  morn- 
ing, the  day  was  full  of  possibilities  of  curious 
things  to  be  found  in  the  barn  and  under 
spreading  gooseberry  bushes,  or  if  it  rained, 
the  garret  was  an  Alsatia  unexplored. 

Page  2f 


The  evolution  of  the  individual  mirrors  the 
evolution  of  the  race.  In  the  morning  of  the 
world  man  was  innocent  and  free;  but  when 
self-consciousness  crept  in  and  he  possessed 
himself  of  that  disturbing  motto,  Know 
Thyself,"  he  took  a  fall. 
Yet  knowledge  usually  comes  to  us  with  a 
shock,  just  as  the  mixture  crystallizes  when 
the  chemist  gives  the  jar  a  tap.  We  grow  by 
throes. 

I  well  remember  the  day  when  I  was  put  out 
of  my  Eden. 

My  father  and  mother  had  gone  away  in 
the  one-horse  wagon,  taking  the  baby  with 
them,  leaving  me  in  care  of  my  elder  sister. 
It  was  a  stormy  day  and  the  air  was  full  of 
fog  and  mist.  It  did  not  rain  very  much,  only 
in  gusts,  but  great  leaden  clouds  chased  each 
other  angrily  across  the  sky.  It  was  very 
quiet  there  in  the  little  house  on  the  prairie, 
except  when  the  wind  came  and  shook  the 

Page  28 


windows  and  rattled  at  the  doors.  The  morning 
seemed  to  drag  and  would  n't  pass,  just  out 
of  contrariness;  and  I  wanted  it  to  go  fast 
because  in  the  afternoon  my  sister  was  to 
take  me  somewhere,  but  where  I  did  not 
know,  but  that  we  should  go  somewhere 
was  promised  again  and  again. 
As  the  day  wore  on  and  we  went  up  into  the 
little  garret  and  strained  our  eyes  across  the 
stretching  prairie  to  see  if  some  one  was  com- 
ing. There  had  been  much  rain,  for  on  the 
prairie  there  was  always  too  much  rain  or 
else  too  little.  It  was  either  drought  or  flood. 
Dark  swarms  of  wild  ducks  were  in  all  the 
ponds;  V-shaped  flocks  of  geese  and  brants 
screamed  overhead,  and  down  in  the  slough 
cranes  danced  a  solemn  minuet. 
Again  and  again  we  looked  for  the  coming 
something,  and  I  began  to  cry,  fearing  we 
had  been  left  there,  forgotten  of  Fate. 
At  last  we  went  out  by  the  barn  and,  with 

Page  29 


II 
(( 


much  boosting,  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
haystack  and  my  sister  followed.  And  still 
we  watched. 

There  they  come! '    exclaimed  my  sister. 

There  they  come ! '  I  echoed,  and  clapped 
two  red,  chapped  hands  for  joy. 
Away  across  the  prairie,  miles  and  miles 
away,  was  a  winding  string  of  wagons,  a 
dozen  perhaps,  one  right  behind  another.  We 
watched  until  we  could  make  out  our  own 
white  horse,  Bob,  and  then  we  slid  down 
the  hickory  pole  that  leaned  against  the 
stack,  and  made  our  way  across  the  spongy 
sod  to  the  burying-ground  that  stood  on 
a  knoll  half  a  mile  away. 
We  got  there  before  the  procession,  and  saw 
a  great  hole,  with  square  corners,  dug  in 
the  ground.  It  was  half-full  of  water,  and 
a  man  in  bare  feet,  with  trousers  rolled  to 
his  knees,  was  working  industriously  to  bale 
it  out. 

Page  jo 


The  wagons  drove  up  and  stopped.  And  out 
of  one  of  them  four  men  lifted  a  long  box 
and  set  it  down  beside  the  hole  where  the 
man  still  baled  and  dipped.  The  box  was 
opened  and  in  it  was  Si  Johnson.  Si  lay  very 
still,  and  his  face  was  very  blue,  and  his 
clothes  were  very  black,  save  for  his  shirt, 
which  was  very  white,  and  his  hands  were 
folded  across  his  breast,  just  so,  and  held 
awkwardly  in  the  stiff  fingers  was  a  little 
New  Testament.  We  all  looked  at  the  blue 
face,  and  the  women  cried  softly.  The  men 
took  off  their  hats  while  the  preacher  prayed, 
and  then  we  sang,  There  '11  be  no  more 
parting  there/3 

The  lid  of  the  box  was  nailed  down,  lines 
were  taken  from  the  harness  of  one  of  the 
teams  standing  by  and  were  placed  around 
the  long  box,  and  it  was  lowered  with  a  splash 
into  the  hole.  Then  several  men  seized  spades 
and  the  clods  fell  with  clatter  and  echo.  The 

Page  31 


men  shoveled  very  hard,  filling  up  the  hole, 
and  when  it  was  full  and  heaped  up,  they 
patted  it  all  over  with  the  backs  of  their  spades. 
Everybody  remained  until  this  was  done, 
and  then  we  got  into  the  wagons  and  drove 
away. 

Nearly  a  dozen  of  the  folks  came  over  to 
our  house  for  dinner,  including  the  preacher, 
and  they  all  talked  of  the  man  who  was  dead 
and  how  he  came  to  die. 
Only  two  days  before,  this  man,  Si  Johnson, 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  house  and  looked 
out  at  the  falling  rain.  It  had  rained  for  three 
days,  so  they  could  not  plow,  and  Si  was 
angry.  Besides  this,  his  two  brothers  had 
enlisted  and  gone  away  to  the  War  and  left 
him  all  the  work  to  do.  He  did  not  go  to  the 
War  because  he  was  a  '  Copperhead;"  and 
as  he  stood  there  in  the  doorway  looking 
at  the  rain,  he  took  a  chew  of  tobacco,  and 
then  he  swore  a  terrible  oath. 

Page  32 


And  ere  the  swear-words  had  escaped  from 
his  lips,  there  came  a  blinding  flash  of  light- 
ning, and  the  man  fell  all  in  a  heap  like  a 
sack  of  oats. 
And  he  was  dead. 

Whether  he  died  because  he  was  a  Copper- 
head, or  because  he  took  a  chew  of  tobacco, 
or  because  he  swore,  I  could  not  exactly 
understand.  I  waited  for  a  convenient  lull 
in  the  conversation  and  asked  the  preacher 
why  the  man  died,  and  he  patted  me  on  the 
head  and  told  me  it  was  the  vengeance  of 
God,"  and  that  he  hoped  I  would  grow  up 
and  be  a  good  man  and  never  chew  tobacco 
nor  swear.  The  preacher  is  alive  now.  He  is 
an  old,  old  man  with  long,  white  whiskers, 
and  I  never  see  him  but  that  I  am  tempted 
to  ask  for  the  exact  truth  as  to  why  Si  Johnson 
was  struck  by  lightning. 
Yet  I  suppose  it  was  because  he  was  a  Copper- 
head: all  Copperheads  chewed  tobacco  and 

Page  33 


swore,  and  that  his  fate  was  merited  no  one 
but  the  living  Copperheads  in  that  community 
doubted. 

That  was  an  eventful  day  to  me.  Like  men 
whose  hair  turns  from  black  to  gray  in  a  night, 
I  had  left  babyhood  behind  at  a  bound,  and 
the  problems  of  the  world  were  upon  me, 
clamoring  for  solution. 

THERE  was  war  in  the  land.  When  it 
began  I  did  not  know,  but  that  it  was 
something  terrible  I  could  guess.  I  thought 
of  it  all  the  rest  of  the  day  and  dreamed  of 
it  at  night.  Many  men  had  gone  away;  and 
every  day  men  in  blue  straggled  by,  all  going 
South,  forever  South. 

And  all  the  men  straggling  along  that  road 
stopped  to  get  a  drink  at  our  well,  drawing 
the  water  with  the  sweep,  and  drinking  out 
of  the  bucket,  and  squirting  a  mouthful  of 
water  over  each  other.  They  looked  at  my 

Page  3b 


father's  creaking  doctor's  sign,  and  sang, 
"  Old  Mother  Hubbard,  she  went  to  the 
cupboard/3 

They  all  sang  that.  They  were  very  jolly, 
just  as  though  they  were  going  to  a  picnic. 
Some  of  them  came  back  that  way  a  few 
years  later  and  they  were  not  so  jolly.  And 
some  there  were  who  never  came  back  at  all. 
1f  Freight-trains  passed  Southward,  blue  with 
men  in  the  cars,  and  on  top  of  the  cars,  and 
in  the  caboose,  and  on  the  cowcatcher,  always 
going  South  and  never  North.  For  '  Down 
South  J  were  many  Rebels,  and  all  along  the 
way  South  were  Copperheads,  and  they  all 
wanted  to  come  North  and  kill  us,  so  soldiers 
had  to  go  down  there  and  fight  them.  And 
I  marveled  much  that  if  God  hated  Copper- 
heads, as  our  preacher  said  He  did,  why 
He  did  n't  send  lightning  and  kill  them,  just 
in  a  second,  as  He  had  Si  Johnson.  And  then 
all  that  would  have  to  be  done  would  be  to 

Page  35 


send  for  a  doctor  to  see  that  they  were  surely 
dead,  and  a  preacher  to  pray,  and  the  neigh- 
bors would  dress  them  in  their  best  Sunday 
suits  of  black,  folding  their  hands  very  care- 
fully across  their  breasts,  then  we  would  bury 
them  deep,  filling  in  the  dirt  and  heaping  it 
up,  patting  it  all  down  very  carefully  with 
the  back  of  a  spade,  and  then  go  away  and 
leave  them  until  Judgment  Day. 
Copperheads  were  simply  men  who  hated 
Lincoln.  The  name  came  from  copperhead- 
snakes,  which  are  worse  than  rattlers,  for 
rattlers  rattle  and  give  warning.  A  rattler 
is  an  open  enemy,  but  you  never  know  that 
a  copperhead  is  around  until  he  strikes.  He  lies 
low  in  the  swale  and  watches  his  chance.  ' c  He 
is  the  worstest  snake  that  am/3 
It  was  Abe  Lincoln  of  Springfield  who  was 
fighting  the  Rebels  that  were  trying  to  wreck 
the  country  and  spread  red  ruin.  The  Copper- 
heads were  wicked  folks  at  the  North  who 

Page  36 


sided  with  the  Rebels.  Society  was  divided 
into  two  classes:  those  who  favored  Abe 
Lincoln,  and  those  who  told  lies  about  him. 
All  the  people  I  knew  and  loved,  loved  Abe 
Lincoln. 

I  was  born  at  Bloomington,  Illinois,  through 
no  choosing  of  my  own,  and  Bloomington 
is  further  famous  for  being  the  birthplace 
of  the  Republican  party.  When  a  year  old 
I  persuaded  my  parents  to  move  seven  miles 
North  to  the  village  of  Hudson,  that  then 
had  five  houses,  a  church,  a  store  and  a 
blacksmith-shop.  Many  of  the  people  I  knew, 
knew  Lincoln,  for  he  used  to  come  to  Bloom- 
ington several  times  a  year  '  on  the  circuit ' 
to  try  cases,  and  at  various  times  made 
speeches  there.  When  he  came  he  would  tell 
stories  at  the  Ashley  House,  and  when  he 
was  gone  these  stories  would  be  repeated 
by  everybody.  Some  of  these  stories  must 
have  been  peculiar,  for  I  once  heard  my 

Page  37 


mother  caution  my  father  not  to  tell  any 
more  "  Lincoln  stories  '  at  the  dinner-table 
when  we  had  company.  And  once  Lincoln 
gave  a  lecture  at  the  Presbyterian  Church 
on  the  "  Progress  of  Man/'  when  no  one 
was  there  but  the  preacher,  my  Aunt  Hannah 
and  the  sexton. 

My  Uncle  Elihu  and  Aunt  Hannah  knew 
Abe  Lincoln  well.  So  did  Jesse  Fell,  James 
C.  Conklin,  Judge  Davis,  General  Orme, 
Leonard  Swett,  Dick  Yates  and  lots  of 
others  I  knew.  They  never  called  him  ' '  Mister 
Lincoln/'  but  it  was  always  Abe  or  Old  Abe, 
or  just  plain  Abe  Lincoln.  In  that  newly 
settled  country  you  always  called  folks  by 
their  first  names,  especially  when  you  liked 
them.  And  when  they  spoke  the  name,  "  Abe 
Lincoln/'  there  was  something  in  the  voice 
that  told  of  confidence,  respect  and  affection. 
If  Once  when  I  was  at  my  Aunt  Hannah's, 
Judge  Davis  was  there  and  I  sat  on  his 

Page  38 


lap.  The  only  thing  about  the  interview  I 
remember  was  that  he  really  did  n't  have 
any  lap  to  speak  of. 

After  Judge  Davis  had  gone,  Aunt  Hannah 
said,  You  must  always  remember  Judge 
Davis,  for  he  is  the  man  who  made  Abe 
Lincoln ! ' 

And   when   I   said,      Why,   I    thought   God 
made  Lincoln,"   they  all  laughed. 
After  a  little  pause  my  inquiring  mind  caused 
me    to    ask,       Who    made    Judge    Davis? ' 
And  Uncle  Elihu  answered,    '  Abe  Lincoln." 
Then  they  all  laughed  more  than  ever. 


VOLUNTEERS  were  being  called  for. 
Neighbors  and  neighbors'  boys  were  en- 
listing— going  to  the  support  of  Abe  Lincoln. 
1f  Then  one  day  my  father  went  away,  too. 
Many  of  the  neighbors  went  with  us  to  the 
station  when  he  took  the  four-o'clock  train, 
and  we  all  cried,  except  mother — she  did  n't 

Page  39 


cry  until  she  got  home.  My  father  had  gone 
to  Springfield  to  enlist  as  a  surgeon.  In  three 
days  he  came  back  and  told  us  he  had  enlisted, 
and  was  to  be  assigned  his  regiment  in  a  week, 
and  go  at  once  to  the  front.  He  was  always 
a  kind  man,  but  during  that  week  when  he 
was  waiting  to  be  told  where  to  go,  he  was 
very  gentle  and  more  kind  than  ever.  He  told 
me  I  must  be  the  man  of  the  house  while 
he  was  away,  and  take  care  of  my  mother 
and  sisters,  and  not  forget  to  feed  the  chickens 
every  morning;  and  I  promised. 
At  the  end  of  the  week  a  big  envelope 
came  from  Springfield  marked  in  the  corner, 
"  Official." 

My  mother  would  not  open  it,  and  so  it  lay 
on  the  table  until  the  doctor's  return.  We 
all  looked  at  it  curiously,  and  my  eldest 
sister  gazed  on  it  long  with  lack-luster  eye 
and  then  rushed  from  the  room  with  her 
check  apron  over  her  head. 

Page  40 


When  my  father  rode  up  on  horseback  I 
ran  to  tell  him  that  the  envelope  had  come. 
1f  We  all  stood  breathless  and  watched  him 
break  the  seals. 

He  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it  silently 
and  passed  it  to  my  mother. 
I  have  the  letter  before  me  now,  and  it  says: 
The  Department  is  still  of  the  opinion 
that  it  does  not  care  to  accept  men  having 
varicose  veins,  which  make  the  wearing  of 
bandages  necessary.  Your  name,  however,  has 
been  filed  and  should  we  be  able  to  use  your 
services,  will  advise." 

Then  we  were  all  very  glad  about  the  varicose 
veins,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  went  out  and 
boasted  to  my  playfellows  about  our  family 
possessions. 

It  was  not  so  very  long  after,  that  there 
was  a  Big  Meeting  in  the  '  timber/3  People 
came  from  all  over  the  county  to  attend  it. 
The  chief  speaker  was  a  man  by  the  name 

Page  41 


of  Ingersoll,  a  colonel  in  the  army,  who  was 
back  home  for  just  a  day  or  two  on  furlough. 
People  said  he  was  the  greatest  orator  in 
Peoria  County. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  wagons  began  to 
go  by  our  house,  and  all  along  the  four  roads 
that  led  to  the  grove  we  could  see  great  clouds 
of  dust  that  stretched  away  for  miles  and 
miles  and  told  that  the  people  were  gathering 
by  the  thousand.  They  came  in  wagons  and 
on  horseback,  and  on  foot  and  with  ox-teams. 
Women  rode  on  horseback  carrying  babies; 
two  boys  on  one  horse  were  common  sights; 
and  there  were  various  four-horse  teams  with 
wagons  filled  with  girls  all  dressed  in  white, 
carrying  flags. 

All  our  folks  went.  My  mother  fastened  the 
back  door  of  our  house  with  a  bolt  on  the 
inside,  and  then  locked  the  front  door  with 
a  key,  and  hid  the  key  under  the  doormat. 
At  the  grove  there  was  much  handshaking 

Page  1+2 


and  visiting  and  asking  after  the  folks  and 
for  the  news.  Several  soldiers  were  present, 
among  them  a  man  who  lived  near  us,  called 
'  Little  Ramsey/3  Three  one-armed  men  were 
there,  and  a  man  named  Al  Sweetser,  who 
had  only  one  leg.  These  men  wore  blue,  and 
were  seated  on  the  big  platform  that  was  all 
draped  with  flags.  Plank  seats  were  arranged, 
and  every  plank  held  its  quota.  Just  outside 
the  seats  hundreds  of  men  stood,  and  beyond 
these  were  wagons  filled  with  people.  Every 
tree  in  the  woods  seemed  to  have  a  horse  tied 
to  it,  and  the  trees  over  the  speakers'  platform 
were  black  with  men  and  boys.  I  never  knew 
before  that  there  were  so  many  horses  and 
people  in  the  world. 

When  the  speaking  began,  the  people  cheered, 
and  then  they  became  very  quiet,  and  only 
the  occasional  squealing  and  stamping  of  the 
horses  could  be  heard.  Our  preacher  spoke 
first,  and  then  the  lawyer  from  Bloomington, 

Page  43 


and  then  came  the  great  man  from  Peoria. 
The  people  cheered  more  than  ever  when  he 
stood  up,  and  kept  hurrahing  so  long  I  thought 
they  were  not  going  to  let  him  speak  at  all. 
At  last  they  quieted  down,  and  the  speaker 
began.  His  first  sentence  contained  a  reference 
to  Abe  Lincoln.  The  people  applauded,  and 
some  one  proposed  three  cheers  for  '  Honest 
Old  Abe/'  Everybody  stood  up  and  cheered, 
and  I,  perched  on  my  father's  shoulder, 
cheered  too.  And  beneath  the  legend,  War- 
ranted Fifty  Pounds,"  my  heart  beat  proudly. 
Silence  came  at  last — a  silence  filled  only  by 
the  neighing  and  stamping  of  horses  and  the 
rapping  of  a  woodpecker  in  a  tall  tree.  Every 
ear  was  strained  to  catch  the  orator's  first 
words. 

The  speaker  was  just  about  to  begin.  He 
raised  one  hand,  but  ere  his  lips  moved,  a 
hoarse,  guttural  shout  echoed  through  the 
woods,  "  Hurrah'h'h  for  Jeff  Davis  !  !  !  " 

Page  44 


Kill  that  man ! '    rang  a  sharp,  clear  voice 
in   instant   answer. 

A  rumble  like  an  awful  groan  came  from 
the  vast  crowd.  My  father  was  standing  on 
a  seat,  and  I  had  climbed  to  his  shoulder. 
The  crowd  surged  like  a  monster  animal 
toward  a  tall  man  standing  alone  in  a  wagon. 
He  swung  a  blacksnake  whip  around  him, 
and  the  lash  fell  savagely  on  two  gray  horses. 
At  a  lunge,  the  horses,  the  wagon  and  the 
tall  man  had  cleared  the  crowd,  knocking 
down  several  people  in  their  flight.  One  man 
clung  to  the  tailboard.  The  whip  wound  with 
a  hiss  and  a  crack  across  his  face,  and  he  fell 
stunned  in  the  roadway. 
A  clear  space  of  fully  three  hundred  feet  now 
separated  the  man  in  the  wagon  from  the  great 
throng,  which  with  ten  thousand  hands  seemed 
ready  to  tear  him  limb  from  limb.  Revolver 
shots  rang  out,  women  screamed,  and  tram- 
pled children  cried  for  help.  Above  it  all  was 

Page  45 


the  roar  of  the  mob.  The  orator,  in  vain  pan- 
tomime, implored  order. 

I  saw  Little  Ramsey  drop  off  the  limb  of  a 
tree  astride  of  a  horse  that  was  tied  beneath, 
then  lean  over,  and  with  one  stroke  of  a  knife 
sever  the  halter. 

At  the  same  time  fifty  other  men  seemed  to 
have  done  the  same  thing,  for  flying  horses 
shot  out  from  different  parts  of  the  woods, 
all  on  the  instant.  The  man  in  the  wagon  was 
half  a  mile  away  now,  still  standing  erect. 
The  gray  horses  were  running  low,  with  noses 
and  tails  outstretched. 

The  spread-out  riders  closed  in  a  mass  and 
followed  at  terrific  speed.  The  crowd  behind 
seemed  to  grow  silent.  We  heard  the  patter- 
patter  of  barefoot  horses  ascending  the  long, 
low  hill.  One  rider  on  a  sorrel  horse  fell  behind. 
He  drew  his  horse  to  one  side,  and  sitting  over 
with  one  foot  in  the  long  stirrup,  plied  the 
sorrel  across  the  flank  with  a  big,  white-felt 

Page  46 


hat.  The  horse  responded,  and  crept  around 
to  the  front  of  the  flying  mass. 
The  wagon  had  disappeared  over  a  gentle 
rise  of  ground,  and  then  we  lost  the  horsemen, 
too.  Still  we  watched,  and  two  miles  across 
the  prairie  we  got  a  glimpse  of  running  horses 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  into  another  valley 
they  settled,  and  then  we  lost  them  for  good. 
1f  The  speaking  began  again  and  went  on 
amid  applause  and  tears,  with  laughter  set 
between. 

I  do  not  remember  what  was  said,  but  after 
the  speaking,  as  we  made  our  way  homeward, 
we  met  Little  Ramsey  and  the  young  man 
who  rode  the  sorrel  horse.  They  told  us  that 
they  caught  the  Copperhead  after  a  ten-mile 
chase,  and  that  he  was  badly  hurt,  for  the 
wagon  had  upset  and  the  fellow  was  beneath 
it.  Ramsey  asked  my  father  to  go  at  once 
to  see  what  could  be  done  for  him. 
The  man  was  quite  dead  when  my  father 

Page  W 


reached  him.  There  was  a  purple  mark  around 
his  neck;  and  the  opinion  seemed  to  be  that 
he  had  got  tangled  up  in  the  harness  or  some- 
thing. 

x 

THE  war-time  months  went  dragging  by, 
and  the  burden  of  gloom  in  the  air 
seemed  to  lift;  for  when  the  Chicago  Tribune 
was  read  each  evening  in  the  post-office  it 
told  of  victories  on  land  and  sea.  Yet  it  was 
a  joy  not  un tinged  with  black;  for  in  the 
church  across  from  our  house,  funerals  had 
been  held  for  farmer  boys  who  had  died  in 
prison-pens  and  been  buried  in  Georgia 
trenches. 

One  youth  there  was,  I  remember,  who  had 
stopped  to  get  a  drink  at  our  pump,  and 
squirted  a  mouthful  of  water  over  me  because 
I  was  handy. 

One  night  the  postmaster  was  reading  aloud 
the  names  of  the  killed  at  Gettysburg,  and 

Page 


he  ran  right  on  to  the  name  of  this  boy.  The 
boy's  father  sat  there  on  a  nail-keg,  chewing 
a  straw.  The  postmaster  tried  to  shuffle  over 
the  name  and  on  to  the  next. 
"  Hi!  Wha — what 's  that  you  said?  " 

;  Killed  in  honorable  battle — Snyder,  Hiram/' 
said  the  postmaster  with  a  forced  calmness, 
determined  to  face  the  issue.  1f  The  boy's 
father  stood  up  with  a  jerk.  Then  he  sat 
down.  Then  he  stood  up  again  and  staggered 
his  way  to  the  door  and  fumbled  for  the  latch 
like  a  blind  man. 

'  God  help  him !  he  's  gone  to  tell  the  old 
woman/'  said  the  postmaster  as  he  blew 
his  nose  on  a  red  handkerchief. 
The  preacher  preached  a  funeral  sermon  for 
the  boy,  and  on  the  little  pyramid  that 
marked  the  family  lot  in  the  burying-ground 
they  carved  the  inscription : '  Killed  in  honor- 
able battle,  Hiram  Snyder,  aged  nineteen.'3 
Not  long  after,  strange,  yellow,  bearded 

Page  49 


men  in  faded  blue  began  to  arrive.  Great 
welcomes  were  given  them;  and  at  the  regular 
Wednesday  evening  prayer-meeting  thanks- 
givings were  poured  out  for  their  safe  return, 
with  names  of  company  and  regiment  duly 
mentioned  for  the  Lord's  better  identification. 
Bees  were  held  for  some  of  these  returned 
farmers,  where  twenty  teams  and  fifty  men, 
old  and  young,  did  a  season's  farm  work  in 
a  day,  and  split  enough  wood  for  a  year. 
At  such  times  the  women  would  bring  big 
baskets  of  provisions  and  long  tables  would 
be  set,  and  there  were  very  jolly  times,  with 
cracking  of  many  jokes  that  were  veterans, 
and  the  day  would  end  with  pitching  horse- 
shoes, and  at  last  with  singing  "  Auld  Lang 
Syne." 

It  was  at  one  such  gathering  that  a  ghost 
appeared — a  lank,  saffron  ghost,  ragged  as  a 
scarecrow — wearing  a  foolish  smile  and  the 
cape  of  a  cavalryman's  overcoat  with  no  coat 

Page  30 


beneath  it.  The  apparition  was  a  youth  of 
about  twenty,  with  a  downy  beard  all  over 
his  face,  and  countenance  well  mellowed  with 
coal  soot,  as  though  he  had  ridden  several 
days  on  top  of  a  freight-car  that  was  near 
the  engine.  This  ghost  was  Hiram  Snyder. 
^  All  forgave  him  the  shock  of  surprise  he 
caused  us — all  except  the  minister  who  had 
preached  his  funeral  sermon.  Years  after  I 
heard  this  minister  remark  in  a  solemn,  grieved 
tone:  '  Hiram  Snyder  is  a  man  who  can  not 
be  relied  on/3 

AS  the  years  pass,  the  miracle  of  the  seasons 
jL\.  means  less  to  us.  But  what  country  boy 
can  forget  the  turning  of  the  leaves  from 
green  to  gold,  and  the  watchings  and  wait- 
ings for  the  first  hard  frost  that  ushers  in 
the  nutting  season!  And  then  the  first  fall 
of  snow,  with  its  promise  of  skates  and  sleds 
and  tracks  of  rabbits,  and  mayhap  bears, 

Page  51 


and  strange  animals  that  only  come  out  at 
night,  and  that  no  human  eye  has  ever  seen! 
1f  Beautiful  are  the  seasons;  and  glad  I  am 
that  I  have  not  yet  quite  lost  my  love  for 
each.  But  now  they  parade  past  with  a  curious 
swiftness!  They  look  at  me  out  of  wistful 
eyes,  and  sometimes  one  calls  to  me  as  she 
goes  by  and  asks,  Why  have  you  done  so 
little  since  I  saw  you  last? '  And  I  can  only 
answer,  :  I  was  thinking  of  you/1 
I  do  not  need  another  incarnation  to  live 
my  life  over  again.  I  can  do  that  now,  and 
the  resurrection  of  the  past,  through  memory, 
that  sees  through  closed  eyes,  is  just  as  satis- 
factory as  the  thing  itself. 
Were  we  talking  of  the  seasons?  Very  well, 
dearie,  the  seasons  it  shall  be.  They  are  all 
charming,  but  if  I  were  to  wed  any  it  would 
be  Spring.  How  well  I  remember  the  gentle 
perfume  of  her  comings,  and  her  warm,  languid 
breath ! 

Page  52 


There  was  a  time  when  I  would  go  out  of  the 
house  some  morning,  and  the  snow  would 
be  melting,  and  Spring  would  kiss  my  cheek, 
and  then  I  would  be  all  aglow  with  joy  and 
would  burst  into  the  house,  and  cry:  "  Spring 
is  here!  Spring  is  here!'  For  you  know  we 
always  have  to  divide  our  joy  with  some  one. 
One  can  bear  grief,  but  it  takes  two  to  be  glad. 
1f  And  then  my  mother  would  smile  and  say, 
Yes,  my  son,  but  do  not  wake  the  baby! ' 
If  Then  I  would  go  out  and  watch  the  snow 
turn  to  water,  and  run  down  the  road  in  little 
rivulets  to  the  creek,  that  would  swell  until 
it  became  a  regular  Mississippi,  so  that  when 
we  waded  the  horse  across,  the  water  would 
come  to  the  saddlegirth. 

Then  once,  I  remember,  the  bridge  was  washed 
away,  and  all  the  teams  had  to  go  around  and 
through  the  water,  and  some  used  to  get 
stuck  in  the  mud  on  the  other  bank.  It  was 
great  fun! 

53 


The  first  c  Spring  beauties  '  bloomed  very 
early  that  year;  violets  came  out  on  the 
South  side  of  rotting  logs,  and  cowslips  blos- 
somed in  the  slough  as  they  never  had  done 
before.  Over  on  the  knoll,  prairie-chickens 
strutted  pompously  and  proudly  drummed. 
If  The  war  was  over!  Lincoln  had  won,  and 
the  country  was  safe!  11  The  jubilee  was 
infectious,  and  the  neighbors  who  used  to 
come  and  visit  us  would  tell  of  the  men  and 
boys  who  would  soon  be  back. 
The  war  was  over! 

My  father  and  mother  talked  of  it  across 
the  table,  and  the  men  talked  of  it  at  the 
store,  and  earth,  sky  and  water  called  to 
each  other  in  glad  relief,  '  The  war  is  over! ' 
But  there  came  a  morning  when  my  father 
walked  up  from  the  railroad-station  very  fast, 
and  looking  very  serious.  He  pushed  right 
past  me  as  I  sat  in  the  doorway.  I  followed 
him  into  the  kitchen  where  my  mother  was 

Page  54 


washing  dishes,  and  I  heard  him  say.  They 
have  killed  Lincoln! '  and  then  he  burst  into 
tears. 

I  had  never  before  seen  my  father  shed  tears 
— in  fact,  I  had  never  seen  a  man  cry.  There 
is  something  terrible  in  the  grief  of  a  man. 
]f  Soon  the  church-bell  across  the  road  began 
to  toll;  It  tolled  all  that  day.  Three  men — 
I  can  give  you  their  names — rang  the  bell 
all  day  long,  tolling,  slowly  tolling,  tolling 
until  night  came  and  the  stars  came  out. 
I  thought  it  a  little  curious  that  the  stars 
should  come  out,  for  Lincoln  was  dead;  but 
they  did,  for  I  saw  them  as  I  trotted  by  my 
father's  side  down  to  the  post-office. 
There  was  a  great  crowd  of  men  there.  At 
the  long  line  of  peeled-hickory  hitching-poles 
were  dozens  of  saddle-horses.  The  farmers  had 
come  for  miles  to  get  details  of  the  news. 
On  the  long  counters  that  ran  down  each 
side  of  the  store  men  were  seated,  swinging 

Page  55 


their  feet,  and  listening  intently  to  some  one 
who  was  reading  aloud  from  a  newspaper. 
We  worked  our  way  past  the  men  who  were 
standing  about,  and  with  several  of  these  my 
father  shook  hands  solemnly. 
Leaning  against  the  wall  near  the  window 
was  a  big,  red-faced  man,  whom  I  knew  as 
a  Copperhead.  He  had  been  drinking,  evi- 
dently, for  he  was  making  boozy  efforts  to 
stand  very  straight.  There  were  only  heard 
a  subdued  buzz  of  whispers  and  the  monoto- 
nous voice  of  the  reader,  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  center,  his  newspaper  in  one  hand  and 
a  lighted  candle  in  the  other. 
The  red-faced  man  lurched  two  steps  forward, 
and  in  a  loud  voice  said,  '  L — L — Lincoln  is 
dead — an'  I  'm  damn  glad  of  it ! ' 
Across  the  room  I  saw  two  men  struggling 
with  Little  Ramsey.  Why  they  should  struggle 
with  him  I  could  not  imagine,  but  ere  I  could 
think  the  matter  out,  I  saw  him  shake  himself 

Page  56 


loose  from  the  strong  hands  that  sought  to 
hold  him.  He  sprang  upon  the  counter,  and 
in  one  hand  I  saw  he  held  a  scale-weight. 
Just  an  instant  he  stood  there,  and  then  the 
weight  shot  straight  at  the  red-faced  man. 
The  missile  glanced  on  his  shoulder  and  shot 
through  the  window.  In  another  second  the 
red-faced  man  plunged  through  the  window, 
taking  the  entire  sash  with  him. 

You  '11    have    to   pay   for    that   window! ' 
called  the  alarmed  postmaster  out  into  the 
night. 

The  store  was  quickly  emptied,  and  on  fol- 
lowing outside  no  trace  of  the  red  man  could 
be    found.    The    earth    had    swallowed    both 
the  man  and  the  five-pound  scale-weight. 
After   some  minutes   had   passed   in   a  vain 
search  for  the  weight  and  the  Copperhead, 
we  went  back  into  the  store  and  the  reading 
was  continued. 
But  the  interruption  had  relieved  the  tension, 

Page  57 


and  for  the  first  time  that  day  men  in  that 
post-office  joked  and  laughed.  It  even  lifted 
from  my  heart  the  gloom  that  threatened  to 
smother  me,  and  I  went  home  and  told  the 
story  to  my  mother  and  sisters,  and  they  too 
smiled,  so  closely  akin  are  tears  and  smiles. 


story  of  Lincoln's  life  had  been  in- 
JL  grained  into  me  long  before  I  ever  read 
a  book.  For  the  people  who  knew  Lincoln, 
and  the  people  who  knew  the  people  that 
Lincoln  knew,  were  the  only  people  I  knew. 
I  visited  at  their  houses  and  heard  them  tell 
what  Lincoln  had  said  when  he  sat  at  table 
where  I  then  sat.  I  listened  long  to  Lincoln 
stories,  c  and  that  reminds  me  '  was  often 
on  the  lips  of  those  I  loved.  All  the  tales 
told  by  the  faithful  Herndon  and  the  need- 
lessly loyal  Nicolay  and  Hay  were  current 
coin,  and  the  rehearsal  of  the  Lincoln-Douglas 
debate  was  commonplace. 

Page  58 


When  our  own  poverty  was  mentioned,  we 
compared  it  with  the  poverty  that  Lincoln 
had  endured,  and  felt  rich.  I  slept  in  a  garret 
where  the  Winter's  snow  used  to  sift  merrily 
through  the  slab  shingles,  but  then  I  was 
covered  with  warm  buffalo  robes,  and  a  lov- 
ing mother  tucked  me  in  and  on  my  forehead 
imprinted  a  good-night  kiss.  But  Lincoln  at 
the  same  age  had  no  mother  and  lived  in  a 
hut  that  had  neither  windows,  doors  nor  floor, 
and  a  pile  of  leaves  and  straw  in  the  corner 
was  his  bed.  Our  house  had  two  rooms,  but 
one  Winter  the  Lincoln  home  was  only  a 
shed  enclosed  on  three  sides. 
I  knew  of  his  being  a  clerk  in  a  country 
store  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  that  up  to 
that  time  he  had  read  but  four  books;  of 
his  running  a  flatboat,  splitting  rails,  and 
poring  at  night  over  a  dog-eared  lawbook; 
of  his  asking  to  sleep  in  the  law-office  of 
Joshua  Speed,  and  of  Speed's  giving  him 

Page  59 


permission  to  move  in.  And  of  his  going  away 
after  his  "  worldly  goods  '  and  coming  back 
in  ten  minutes  carrying  an  old  pair  of  saddle- 
bags which  he  threw  into  a  corner  saying, 
'  Speed,  I  Ve  moved ! ' 

I  knew  of  his  twenty  years  of  country  law- 
practise,  when  he  was  considered  just  about 
as  good  and  no  better  than  a  dozen  others 
on  that  circuit,  and  of  his  making  a  bare 
living  during  the  time.  Then  I  knew  of  his 
gradually  awakening  to  the  wrong  of  slavery, 
of  the  expansion  of  his  mind,  so  that  he  began 
to  incur  the  jealousy  of  rivals  and  the  hatred 
of  enemies,  and  of  the  prophetic  feeling  in 
that  slow  but  sure  moving  mind  that  '  a 
house  divided  against  itself  can  not  stand. 
I  believe  this  Government  can  not  endure 
permanently  half-slave  and  half-free/3 
I  knew  of  the  debates  with  Douglas  and 
the  national  attention  they  attracted,  and 
of  Judge  Davis'  remark,  '  Lincoln  has  more 

Page  60 


commonsense  than  any  other  man  in  Amer- 
ica;" and  then,  chiefly  through  Judge  Davis* 
influence,  of  his  being  nominated  for  Presi- 
dent at  the  Chicago  Convention.  I  knew  of 
his  election,  and  the  coming  of  the  war, 
and  the  long,  hard  fight,  when  friends  and 
foes  beset,  and  none  but  he  had  the  patience 
and  the  courage  that  could  wait.  And  then 
I  knew  of  his  death,  that  death  which  then 
seemed  a  calamity — terrible  in  its  awful  black- 
ness. 

But  now  the  years  have  passed,  and  I  com- 
prehend somewhat  of  the  paradox  of  things, 
and  I  know  that  his  death  was  just  what 
he  might  have  prayed  for.  It  was  a  fitting 
close  for  a  life  that  had  done  a  supreme  and 
mighty  work. 
His  face  foretold  the  end. 
Lincoln   had   no   home   ties.    In    that   plain, 
frame   house,    without   embellished   yard    or 
ornament,  where  I  have  been  so  often,  there 

Page  61 


was  no  love  that  held  him  fast.  In  that  house 
there  was  no  library,  but  in  the  parlor,  where 
six  haircloth  chairs  and  a  slippery  sofa  to 
match  stood  guard,  was  a  marble  table  on 
which  were  various  gift-books  in  blue  and 
gilt.  He  only  turned  to  that  home  when  there 
was  no  other  place  to  go.  Politics,  with  its 
attendant  travel  and  excitement,  allowed  him 
to  forget  the  what-might-have-beens.  Foolish 
bickering,  silly  pride,  and  stupid  misunder- 
standing pushed  him  out  upon  the  streets 
and  he  sought  to  lose  himself  among  the 
people.  And  to  the  people  at  length  he  gave 
his  time,  his  talents,  his  love,  his  life.  Fate 
took  from  him  his  home  that  the  country 
might  call  him  savior.  Dire  tragedy  was  a 
fitting  end;  for  only  the  souls  who  have  suf- 
fered are  well-loved. 

Jealousy,  disparagement,  calumny,  have  all 
made  way,  and  North  and  South  alike  revere 
his  name. 

Page  62 


The  memory  of  his  gentleness,  his  patience, 
his  firm  faith,  and  his  great  and  loving  heart 
are  the  priceless  heritage  of  a  united  land. 
He  had  charity  for  all  and  malice  toward 
none;  he  gave  affection,  and  affection  is  his 
reward.  If  Honor  and  love  are  his. 


Page  63 


